by Ben Brady
A DISSOLVE is a laboratory procedure that is created when one picture fades out and is combined with the fade in of the next. DISSOLVE is seldom used now. In a LAP DISSOLVE, which is still used when appropriate, the picture fading in overlaps the picture fading out. Finally, you have the FADE IN, which goes from a blank screen to a full picture, and the FADE OUT, which does the reverse. These transitions have the effect of raising or lowering the curtain on the play.
There is always the possibility that you may want to use one of the following special devices that are created in the laboratory:
SUPERIMPOSE (SUPER)—The effect of blending one picture on top of another.
SPLIT SCREEN—The effect of wiping half the picture off the screen and replacing that half with another picture.
Much of this sounds more complicated than you will find it to be once you start putting it to use. Facility comes with application, and in short order you will find it second nature to write with an eye for the camera and the finished product.
The same basic simplicity applies to format. As soon as you realize the reason for structuring a script as it should be, you will doubtless find it the most convenient way to reduce your ideas to dramatic form.
Format
You want to reveal as quickly as possible the who, what, when, where, and how of your dramatic situation. Each of these facets of your screenplay’s total information occupies its own special place on your sheet of paper.
Starting with FADE IN, we’ll list each function:
FADE IN:
WHERE
WHEN
WHAT HAPPENS
WHO
(HOW he says it)
WHAT he says.
WHERE
WHEN
FADE OUT
Or, for example,
FADE IN:
EXT. SLUM AREA NIGHT
A section of dreary tenement buildings.
CLOSER ANGLE: ONE OF THE TENEMENTS
Wylie’s car is at the curb. He’s examining the handwritten tags on the mailboxes in the doorway. Finding the one he wants, he enters the building.
INT. TENEMENT BUILDING HALLWAY NIGHT
As Wylie emerges from the stairwell, he looks around at the numbers on the shabby doors, moves to one, presses the doorbell.
CLOSER ANGLE: THE DOOR
There’s no response to the bell. Wylie raps with his knuckles. After a moment, the door is opened a crack, still secured by a chain lock. A woman is partially visible.
WYLIE
Mrs. Landry?
MRS. LANDRY
Who are you?
WYLIE
Edward Wylie. I don’t know if you remember.
MRS. LANDRY
(harshly)
I remember.
FADE OUT
Notice that you give the time only when a scene is set. It is not used for any of the SHOTS. Those take place within the scene, within the time established when the scene starts.
Notice also that the title of each scene and shot is written in all capitals and that space is left (two line spaces) for any necessary description of what is taking place in that scene or shot. This description is often called “the business.” Another two lines separates these descriptions from the dialogue. There is no spacing between the name of the character and what he says or how he says it. Sometimes the directions to the actor in parentheses under a character’s name are referred to as “the action,” which is very different from what we mean when we speak of dramatic action. The action is a direction to an actor for a moment of behavior.
When a conversation takes place between people who are in different locations (scenes) you cover that situation by instructing:
INTERCUT FOLLOWING CONVERSATION (or, Simply, INTERCUT:)
Another shot you might use is designated PROCESS. This is a production technique wherein a rear projection screen is placed behind actors in a scene shot on a stage. The screen reflects the background of the indigenous scenic action. For example, shooting a scene in a car traveling on a highway is difficult. Usually the background of such a scene is shot separately and then projected on the rear screen while the actors perform in front of it. The auto used in this process is called a MOCK-UP.
A word about the use of CONTINUED or CONT’D at the bottom of certain pages and then at the top of the next: these are used when either a scene or shot is not completed on one page, but runs on to the next. It is also used when one character speaks, a direction is given or a line of description inserted, and the character speaks again. In such a case, the character’s name appears again with (CONT) or (CONT’D) next to it.
HARRY (CONT’D)
If you find that you cannot complete a speech at the end of a page (and don’t keep going until there’s no more room), you must use this form:
MARTIN
You can’t count on me any longer. I should have told
(MORE)
CONTINUED
next page:
CONTINUED
MARTIN (CONT’D)
you that sooner.
One last word. Once again we urge you to avoid excessive use of shots. The above is a guide and resource—go back and look at the scenes quoted earlier. You will notice how economical but clear the descriptions and shots are. Model your shots on those: do not clutter your script with REVERSE ANGLES and OVER THE SHOULDER SHOTS or play at being director with HIGH or LOW ANGLES. Use your shots to emphasize a significant dramatic moment: don’t give us a series of CLOSE-UPS when a TWO SHOT is perfectly adequate. Think of your dramatic action. What follow are two additional examples of format and shot usage: you will be unlikely to need as many shots in any of your initial scenes:
FADE IN:
EXT. STREET SCENE (EST) DAY
Every scene of a screenplay is set in the above fashion. You designate your opening shot ESTABLISHING or (EST). Here you describe briefly the setting for the set designer and prop man. You call their attention to things that must be supplied by putting them in all capital letters.
You introduce characters as they appear for the first time by using caps. You give a brief description of the character here, too, so that your reader and casting will know your conception. Also, any sounds for the sound effects man, other than source sounds, are in caps.
CHARACTER
(any tonal directions)
The speeches start here and end where you see the word end. All speeches are single-spaced, and if there is a pause in the dialogue, you do this . . .
(beat)
. . . and continue the speech.
MED. SHOT: CHARACTER & PAL
Now, we introduce PAL (note caps) as he ENTERS. He is a short, bearded prospector.
PAL
(timidly)
His speech is typed in the same limits as the speech above.
ANOTHER ANGLE
This is the way you get a different look at the same SHOT. You could have decided to FAVOR THE CHARACTER. Any reference to camera coverage is also in all caps.
CHARACTER
Now go on with the dialogue, and develop your situation.
CLOSE SHOT: PAL
CLOSE SHOTS are used for dramatic effect, to show important details, or to emphasize the importance of what is being said.
CLOSE-UP: CHARACTER
This differs from CLOSE SHOT in that it is always a head shot, but a close shot can be of a person or a thing. For a particularly CLOSE SHOT on a thing, you might want to use an INSERT, as
INSERT
showing a wrapped box in Pal’s hand. Remember to follow a CLOSE-UP or an INSERT with a new shot to bring you out of the very narrow visual field of those shots, or to use
BACK TO SHOT (or BACK TO SCENE)
which returns us to the previous shot before the CLOSE-UP or INSERT. Use
FADE OUT
once your story has ended.
The obvious rule here is to orient the audience first to the total scene for the sake of visual clarity and then to cover the details more closely with appr
opriate SHOTS and more specific, action-related descriptions, where necessary.
Here’s the second example:
FADE IN:
EXT. WASHINGTON, D.C. (STOCK SHOT) (EST) NIGHT
HIGH AERIAL ESTABLISHING SHOT, emphasizing the nation’s Capitol with its light-enhanced dome.
EXT. A STREET (PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE) NIGHT
LONG SHOT: CAPITOL DOME IN BG
CLOSER ON TRUCK
as it comes to a halt. We can SEE TWO MEN sitting in the cab.
INT. CAB OF TRUCK NIGHT
The TRUCK DRIVER is a pleasant-looking, middle-aged nondescript character whom we’ll never see again. Next to him sits GIFFORD JACKSON. Gifford, despite his country bumpkin appearance, is a nice-looking, likable, lanky young lad with a sunny disposition who could be anywhere between 20 and 25 years of age. A cute mongrel dog with soulful eyes sits at his feet with its paws up on Gifford’s knees.
TRUCK DRIVER
Well, Gifford, this is as close as I can take you to your destination. From
(MORE)
TRUCK DRIVER (CONT’D)
here on, you and—
(smiling at dog, and ruffling its head affectionately)
Miss Jones here are on your own.
(he points O.S.)
There’s the seat of our government . . .
Gifford looks O.S.
GIFFORD’S POV: CAPITOL IN THE DISTANCE
TRUCK DRIVER’S VOICE (O.S.) (CONT’D)
. . . and you’ll find the Senate Building somewheres around there.
LONG SHOT: THE TRUCK
We SEE Gifford, carrying a small suitcase, get out of the truck. Miss Jones jumps out after him. Gifford exchanges some pleasantries and good-byes with the truck driver, MOS from this distance, and closes the cab door. As the truck roars off, Gifford waving to the driver, we
DISSOLVE TO
INT. U.S. SENATE BUILDING—A CORRIDOR NIGHT
CAMERA SHOOTS DOWN the fairly long night-lit corridor with closed office doors visible on each side, then ZOOMS IN ON GIFFORD, sprawled out in front of one of the doors, his head resting on his suitcase. He’s asleep. Miss Jones is stretched out at his feet, snoring gently, CAMERA MOVES IN ON SIGN ON DOOR which reads: SENATOR LUCIUS WALEBROOM.
BACK TO SCENE [or BACK TO SHOT]
as, from o.s., comes the SOUND of APPROACHING, RATHER UNEVEN, FOOTSTEPS. Gifford stirs, slowly opens his eyes, looks sleepily down the dimly lit corridor as the FOOTSTEPS COME CLOSER.
GIFFORD’S POV
From way down the length of the corridor, a figure drags itself up the silent corridor, not walking straight, but leaning a little to the north, then rotating to the east, next to the west, like the world was spinning. This is SENATOR LUCIUS WALEBROOM—called “Uncle Loosh” by Gifford.
UNCLE LOOSH is between 45 and 50 years old, has a fleshy and kindly face, watery blue eyes covered by specs, and a shock of rather unruly red hair. He’s of medium height and a little on the heavy side.
Review
Little is said in the above, yet a good feel for character and situation is nonetheless provided. We can tell by Gifford’s appearance, as well as his arrival and how he arrives, a good deal about him before any action transpires. We don’t have to hear Uncle Loosh say anything to get the sense of someone colorful, eccentric, and endearing. We had only to hear Bonasera speak to know he was in distress. Communicate through action, through what is seen and heard whenever you can, whenever those will do what words could do: save your words for all those other moments you must use them. Format and camera language give a set of directions to a production team, yes, but used right, they are your means of opening the audience’s senses—all of them—to your vision. That is why it is essential you master these, starting simply from inexperience and remaining spare once you reach mastery. A detail can speak volumes: but volumes of speech, unless in a moment of rare and felicitously rendered passion, put us to sleep. One precise image can communicate as much as a moment of verbal eloquence: both must be rendered with exactitude. You represent an image of reality in a screenplay, permitted by the camera to have that image virtually seem to be reality itself—or how reality could be. It’s a wonderful gift to a writer. Don’t abuse it or underestimate it, either.
Your First Assignment
It’s your turn to think of a story and write a short scene from a crucial moment in it or write an entirely self-contained story. Make this first one short, perhaps only two typewritten pages. Don’t take more than five. Get your feet wet. Give your protagonist a problem. Quickly develop it into a clash of wills arising from two characters who want to solve the problem differently, like Joanna and Ted or Bonasera and Don Corleone. Give the protagonist an urgent need to solve the problem.
“Okay,” you say, “but . . . where do story ideas come from? How do I make one up?”
Story Sources
We are awash with cinematic images and dramatic situations.
Your unconscious mind dreams one story after another every moment of your life. Every night you dream more stories. The material may be crude and irrational, but many stories have developed from such fantasy and dream.
Your waking life is full of stories, too.
Newspapers and newscasts are full of stories.
You and your friends are constantly telling each other stories, inventing motivations, devising climaxes and resolutions. We call it gossip. Whenever you tell a lie and maintain it, you are living a story you invent on the go.
It doesn’t matter whether your creativity flowers in a dream or in the mature work of an accomplished writer. It’s there. All it needs is stimulation and direction to become accessible.
Start keeping a notebook to hold ideas and stories in as they occur to you. You must write them down: they won’t stay in memory. Look at people closely. Notice when they reveal their inner selves. Ask yourself what motivated someone to do or say what they did. Sit back and speculate if you don’t know. Write it down.
Make it a small notebook so you can carry it with you. Whip it out whenever you come across a good story that you see, hear, or imagine—you never know when a unique character or situation will pop into mind. You may have fantasies of revenge over some actual or imagined insult, or in a moment before the mirror in the morning you may dream of doing some magnificent thing. What if you let a character do either of those? Or a line of clever dialogue may flash into your mind in search of a character.
Look within your life with an aware and creative eye. Your life belongs to you. Don’t let a false sense of Oh-I-couldn’t-write-about-that!-could-I? get in your way.
The “What If . . .” Game
Make a game out of inventing your scene, just like we did with our example about Sally, the injured Olympic skier, earlier. Call it the “What If . . .” game. What if . . . an athletic young woman is badly hurt in an accident? What if . . . it’s so bad, everyone gives up hope on her, even her parents? What if . . . she refuses then to give up herself, but nothing seems to be happening? Does she have the strength to go on? What if . . . determination is rewarded in her case, and she starts to get better? What if . . . ?
Remember that by far the most interesting thing about you as a potential writer is your uniqueness, the way you see and interpret your own experiences, not how anyone else may. Trust your mind. Let your imagination go. Writing is a method of applying your original point of view to all that impinges on you. No one like you has ever existed before or ever will again. Your job here is to begin the difficult but rewarding journey toward discovering, then using professionally, your own unique voice.
Let’s review the assignment.
Create a protagonist, and place him or her in a problem-solving situation. Introduce an antagonist, an obstacle or force that opposes any solution. The opposition to the protagonist will generate a conflict, a collision of wills or forces or circumstances. Your protagonist must act to get his way. Action will lead to reaction until your protagonist actually succeeds—or fails.
Note
Note: This chapter was adapted in part from Ben Brady, The Keys to Writing for Television and Film (Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt, 1982), pp. 137–180.
Part Two: Developing Character and Conflict
5. Introduction
We’re going to break scenes down to their constituent elements in this section. First, we’ll look closely at establishing character and conflict and then at the demands of developing character through conflict to a point of crisis at which some definitive action must be taken. We’ll examine the kind of motivation needed to justify a significant, climactic moment and look at the necessity for change in characters through dramatic action. We’ll deal with the use of overtly thematic material and conclude by considering dialogue and the pure use of action without dialogue to convey story. Grappling with these issues in a sequence of assignments should help you lay the groundwork for larger projects.
In essence, we will review the main features of plotting within the confines of our short scene assignments and in the sample material in the text. There is nothing mysterious about plotting: it is the story structure of your scenes by which you introduce and develop characters and conflict to a critical and finally a climactic point. Normally we would look for the clear emergence of the dramatic conflict of a story at the end of its first act (BEGINNING), the appearance of the crisis by the end of the second (MIDDLE), and the climax in the third (END). You must swiftly establish a problem and conflict in each of your assigned scenes and bring your characters through a crisis and climax each time, though we will emphasize only part of that overall dramatic structure in each assignment.
As you have already seen in Part One, each individual scene uses the same structure: it is the nature of dramatic conflict to structure itself in this way. Part of the accessibility and popularity of screenplays resides in their continuing to honor the plot structure of problem and conflictcrisis-climax because it lends great drive and clarity to a story. You will find thinking in those terms a considerable help when the time comes to write your own miniscreenplay. We want to emphasize this point of thinking about your story in this way: it is a way of thinking about behavior, of how one action leads to another until critical moments are reached—moments of seeming failure, moments of final effort. You will not find screenplays actually written in “Act 1,” “Act 2,” “Act 3” segments, anymore than you will find many contemporary stage plays utilizing that same structure on the page. But you will find in every successful screen and stage play that the story can be broken down and analyzed in just such terms as we have been doing. Only in television with its more conventional approaches do you find scripts prepared with act breaks, and those frequently are not honored in actual broadcast because the act endings are determined by required commercials.